Poetry in daily life

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Black and white

Whether to write my black into whiteOr white into a black I will now decide.So I go out for a brief while and touchDarkness and smell it from the street Then a little rose of some falling petalsTugs at my flowing shirt about its smell.

The sounds are here from the treesAnd the rising temple loud speakers Returning from a white wall of trees.

That is better with a white in black, Not having caught a single keywordFrom light words sleeping in wastesOf fiber glass wires and glass tubes.My light is now white on black night.

I can hear the crows from dead treesNow cawing their mornings to orange Slowly spreading behind the buildings.Their black will remain etched in greysTill they disappear again in the night.